Certain Expectations
by Simply Shelby
Summary: Because even though she'd come to expect these sort of things from him, he could always take her by surprise. James pays M a little not-so-unexpected visit. Loosely tied with CR and QoS.


**Certain Expectations  
By Simply Shelby**

He was waiting for her.

Looking impossibly relaxed in an uncomfortable astrid chair--the fabric of which looked as though it had been a pair of men's striped pyjamas at some point--he had one hand resting atop a thin file in his lap and the other was holding a glass of something wonderfully alcoholic.

She'd switched on the light, but she'd known who he was before the light revealed him. She didn't flinch, she didn't gasp, she didn't start at his presence being somewhere it was most certainly not supposed to be. She barely even blinked, striding gracefully into the room, setting down her bag, her coat, her files. Because, after awhile, she'd come to expect these sort of daring, foolhardy escapades from her youngest Double O.

However, he could still manage to take her by surprise and she couldn't help but lash out reproachfully, "Can you never do as you're told?" she demanded, "I do believe I ordered you to never break into--" her eyes caught the colour splattered in drops on the floor and she sighed. "And you've dripped blood all across the carpet, James."

The young man sipped slowly from his glass, unbothered by her outrage. "Not your carpet," he shrugged off her reprimand.

Decades of managing her composure when faced with aggrivation enabled her to keep from rolling her eyes at his logic. Not her carpet, therefore not her house. And she'd only ordered him never to break into her home. Every other house in the world was fair game in his mind. And just how had he known she would be here for the night? Damn the exasperating, cheeky little blighter. "What are you drinking?" she added a touch of disapproval in her voice to mask the trace of anger coursing through her, an over.

Instead of answering her directly, 007 blinked slowly, staring at his drink in vague concentration. "I'm actually not quite sure." He allowed his features to show he was mulling, musing over something he hadn't told her. Wouldn't tell her. She saw what he didn't allow his face to show: an overpowering sorrow protected by a thin, sturdy, cool exterior. "I've yet to name it."

This time she _did_ roll her eyes at the ego dripping from his voice and poured out a generous amount of bourbon--forcing herself to sip it slowly. She settled into the slightly more comfortable armchair adjacent to her agent; content to wait him out.

He seemed just as content to let her.

He was so young. She couldn't help the thought slipping into her mind as she gazed at him over the rim of her glass. He was both shadowed and illuminated by the dim lamplight, hard and haggard features somewhat softened by the glow. Steely, dull eyes were affixed at some point across the room. His dark suit was in tatters, his body littered with bruises and bloody gashes. He looked as if he hadn't shaved in a week and had foregone sleep for even longer.

He was _too_ young.

She'd made a grave mistake in promoting him when she had. Yes, he was young but, make no mistake, he was good. Damn good. Hardly as perfect as Double Os were expected to be, but he was learning and improving quickly. At first, after she'd given him his Double O status, she'd worried about the damage he'd do to the entire world, nevermind MI6. However, now she knew her fears had been unfounded and her worries had been misdirected. After his first mission--what a bloody disaster that had been--she'd realised what was really at stake.

Furthermore, she was surprised by how much it had affected her. Now, for instance, she had half a mind to order him to have a nap on the couch and some sort of motherly instinct to offer him a blanket. The thought would have never occured to her had it been any other agent before her.

Then again, any other agent wouldn't have turned up in the flat she was staying, looking half dead and entirely too smug for her liking. And he'd yet to tell her what he was even here for. Impatiently, she reached out a hand for the file. "What the hell do you want, Bond?"

He hesitated. It was less than half a second--a time shorter than his training had taught him, yet long enough to get him killed--but he still hesitated before handing over the file. She held it above her lap and began to read. Only to stop and look up at him abruptly.

He was smiling, albeit rather self-satisfiedly, but still smiling at her.

She expected things like this from him, she really did. But her youngest agent _still _managed to surprise her. Just when she thought she has him figured out, he goes and give her a card for her birthday. She stared at the bright gaudy card and the number written in his tight, terse script and glanced back at him.

He was standing and holding out a small, rectangular package covered in silver paper and tied off with a black ribbon. "Something for your collection," he offered as she tentatively began opening the box, "Not a bomb or any other sort of life-threatening device. I can, at times, restrain myself."

The words, "Not often," occured to her as a comeback, but she couldn't seem to move her lips. She could only stare at the contents in something akin to awe.

He delighted in her silence. After swiftly swooping down to peck her cheek lightly and murmur a bright, "Many happy returns," he quickly disappeared.

She shook her head in slow amazement at the gift and downed the rest of her bourbon as she caught sight of the number on the card.

Damn him.

Such cheek.

* * *

**AN: **I am a bit tentative about stepping into a new fandom, but I was quite inspired by Daniel Craig's Bond and the rawness he brings to the character that I had to write this. I'll admit I wasn't all that trusting of him at first, but after seeing QoS, I'm inclined to like this angsty Bond.


End file.
